On the mantelpiece there's a scrap of leather like a half remembered truth, or lie
And there's a photograph of a sunlit garden and a sword that seemed to burn with light
The way is closed now, and I can't go home
The way is closed now, and I can't go home
Near the fireplace, black with soot and sorrow and the absence of synecdoche
There's a whetted axe with a weathered handle, and the weight of it is dear to me
The way is closed now, and I can't go home
The way is closed now, and I can't go home
What if I, what if I just let go?
If I just let go
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